


Five Stages

by raiast



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, He deals with it...as you would expect, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Will Finds Out, i guess?, season 1 AU, that is to say with copious amounts of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiast/pseuds/raiast
Summary: According to the Kübler-Ross model, the five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Each stage presents an emotional release to cope with death and dying, though the process of reaching acceptance can span anywhere from weeks to months, even years. Will Graham may be the only person alive able to run the full gamut in 24 hours.





	Five Stages

Will sighs, rubs his eyes until white spots blossom in the darkness behind his lids, and then opens the file to examine the same pictures for what seems like the tenth time that day. 

Ian Wainwright was a mid-level accountant from Towson, Maryland. A weasley-looking man, especially for an accountant, Wainwright stood at five feet seven, wore spectacles, and had more hair on the sides of his head than the top (though his datebook showed an appointment a week and a half out to consult with a cosmetic surgeon that specializes in hair transplants). He was born on March 2nd in 1967 to Marianne and Thomas Wainwright of Hoboken, New Jersey. He was single, no children, no pets, no notable social life whatsoever, according to the other associates at his accounting firm, though there was a rumor circulating that he had been to the last several speed dating events at Barlow’s on Third. He had black (greying) hair and brown eyes and at some point in his life, he had severely pissed off the Chesapeake Ripper.

“It almost seems personal, you know? But the Ripper doesn’t _do_ personal.”

On the floor by his chair, Winston gives a soft huff, peers up at Will as if to say ‘What can you do?’. Will reaches down to pat the brindle-colored dog.

Detachment and no apparent motive are practically hallmarks of the Ripper. So why does _this_ tableau look so _angry?_ The man’s eyes have been gouged out, very likely while he was still alive, according to Zeller. They’ve been replaced with two gold coins (his glasses propped back over them in a way that Will refuses to think of as humorous).

“This isn’t to ferry you into the afterlife though, is it?” Will asks the picture of Wainwright’s corpse. “No...you were... _blinded_ by money. By _greed._ Is that why he took your hand as well? Customary punishment for thievery...” He turns his gaze to the next picture, a close-up of the scale sitting by the accountant’s feet, rigged in such a way that the dish that holds his brain is shown to be lighter than the empty side. “A brain with less mass than air...makes sense, if you’re stupid enough to steal from the Ripper.”

He couldn’t _possibly_ have been a client though. The Chesapeake Ripper is far too controlled to make such a mistake. Or if he was, it wasn’t any time recently. “How long have you been skimming off the top?” he asks the photo. 

Winston huffs next to him again, spurring a response from a few more of the pack. Will relents and stands to let them outside, standing on the porch and watching them run about as he calls the firm to request a list of their victim's current and previous clientele. He’s assured that they can email it over to him immediately and by the time Will and the dogs have settled back inside (the dogs with their select chewies and Will with a couple fingers of mid-shelf whiskey) it is waiting in his inbox.

He’s requested the last ten years of clients, just to be thorough, but apparently Wainwright has only been with the firm for four. It looks as though he wasn’t very popular either, so by the time the women are removed from the list it shouldn’t be so substantial at all. In fact, in his first year at the firm he only had twelve clients that stayed with him for more than two months. Things appeared to have picked up in his second year of employment, two dozen more names were all added to his ledgers, almost every one of them noted with the code TSFR by their name.

He scans along the dates next to the column of TSFR clients; looks like they didn’t belong to him for long at all. Nearly every single one of them dropped his services within three months.

“Hey, it’s Agent Graham again. There are a sizable number of clients in 2011 with the code ‘TSFR’--”

“That’s a transferred client,” the office manager explains. “2011...oh, Bobby. Yeah, one of our top guys passed away that year. Aneurysm, can you believe it? Just up and dropped one day. Most of his clients ended up with Ian, and wasn’t _that_ a shitshow, let me tell you. No better way to disrespect Bobby’s memory than passing his trusted clients off to some hack just because daddy owns the--” the woman turns her tirade into a hurried clearing of the throat and Will assumes that she no longer has the privacy to speak freely. All the same; she sounds as though she could go for another ten minutes on the subject. He thanks her and hangs up, refilling his glass before he sits down to his list again.

He realizes the futility of the task--even if the Chesapeake Ripper’s name appears on this list, Will would have to run a check on them, individually, and then compare that with his profile for the Ripper. It could take _days_ to--

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Will huffs a laugh when he spots a very unique and _very_ familiar name. He’s about to continue on, but something gives him pause. He stares at the name again, the name of the man that he’d just had dinner with the night previous. The man that made no mention of the fact that he knew the latest victim of the Ripper.

He would remember him, Will is sure, even from three years ago. First of all, Hannibal remembers everything. It’s the reality of being cursed with an eidetic memory--Will himself knows all about the advantages and drawbacks firsthand. Second off, the fact that he was transferred to a new accountant and then fired the man eight weeks later would be something of note for Hannibal, and absolutely a story Will could imagine him telling. He would lament the woeful inadequacies of the accountant he’d been saddled with, especially in comparison to the top dog he’d had working on his account before the man’s untimely demise. He would use words like dreadful and probably make some kind of allusion to Dante or Greek mythology, since Hannibal is _always_ able to find a connection back to one or the other.

But he wouldn’t just say _nothing._

“Will,” he mutters out loud. “ _Stop._ Just turn it off right now because you’re being ridiculous. He’s not the damn Chesapeake Ripper, he’s your _psychiatrist.”_

 _Former surgeon,_ his mind supplies, quite unhelpfully. Will shakes the thought out of his head, eyeing his twice-empty glass. It’s reminder enough that he hasn’t eaten yet today (if you don’t count the three cups of coffee he had for breakfast) and _clearly_ the alcohol is hitting him a little hard if he’s entertaining this line of thinking _at all._

The thought of food reminds Will that his psychiatrist-friend-and-very-gracious-host-not-serial-killer sent him home yesterday with the leftovers from their dinner. His empty stomach rumbles in agreement with his train of thought and Will steps away from his kitchen table turned desk to retrieve the gifted meal from the depths of his fridge.

He regards the dish as it sits on the counter, trying to remember exactly what it was he had been served and deliberating on whether or not he needed to bother heating it up. Surely anything cooked by Hannibal would be just as edible cold. Even kidney, which Will suddenly remembers is the meat that is drowned in the dark, rich sauce.

Will’s stomach drops.

No. No, no, no, no--

He’s back at the table, rifling through stacks of papers from the case file before he even registers that he’s doing it. Where the _hell_ did he put Zeller’s report? The shuffling becomes frantic in the span of seconds, each page and picture that meets his fingers getting thrown to the floor when he deems that it is not the one he needs. And he _needs_ to see Zeller’s report again, because even though the eyes had been crushed in, not removed completely, the Chesapeake Ripper _did_ take his pound of flesh in the form of Wainwright’s left thigh and liver and--

Both kidneys.

Will stares at the words on the page until they blur together and then he blinks, dropping the page to wipe furiously at the tears that drop from his eyes.

“It’s not,” he says out loud, because just thinking it might not be enough to make it true. He glances over into the living room at the several sets of eyes that his panic has drawn to him. “He’s _not,”_ Will insists, as if his dogs are attempting to argue the fact with nothing but their heads quirked to the side in curiosity.

He can’t be, because what a fucking _fool_ Will would have to be not to see it sooner.

But one piece has been revealed, and suddenly a multitude of connections are snapping into place quite against his will. Phrases like ‘surgical precision’ and ‘elevated aesthetic’ are buzzing through his mind. The homages and references in the tableaux are all things in which Hannibal has great knowledge and interest. The way he stepped into that ambulance and saved Silvestri’s patient with all the confidence a man that hasn’t been a surgeon for over a decade should not possess. The fact that a killer attacked him at his office and ended up bloodied, bruised, with a broken arm and a sunken in skull. He had been so relieved to see Hannibal had emerged from the struggle with only some minor scrapes and a cut to his leg. Too relieved to see suspicion where he should have.

“Fuck.”

He had always wanted to be Will’s friend, from the very beginning. Ambushing him with surprise meals and inviting him into his home. Implying a cooking lesson may be in order when Will lamented his lack of skill for cooking anything that wasn’t fish or dog food. And supportive. So supportive, when he admitted in a tortured whisper that he liked killing Hobbs. When he told him that part of him regretted only disabling Stammets. Whispering in his ear like a devil on his goddamn shoulder that _God_ likes killing, and why shouldn’t we?

“Fucking shit. Fucking--” he doesn’t even realize he’s been pacing the room until he spots the ceramic dish on the counter, still awaiting his decision whether to heat or eat cold.

Due to his empathy and his line of work, Will has let all manner of unsavory folk climb into his skull and take his mind for a ride. Murderers and rapists and pedophiles, even a proclaimed occultist who fancied replicating satanic rituals from books and movies. He has never once experienced the level of rage with any of them that surges through him now. Perhaps not even combined.

“FUCK!” he roars, vaguely aware that he’s reaching for the dish, hoisting it high, spiking it to the kitchen floor like it’s a football and he just scored the winning touchdown at the goddamn Super Bowl. He stares down at the mess on the floor before him and when the first thought that enters his mind when he eyes the broken dish is that Hannibal won’t be pleased about that at all, Will thinks he may cry.

A few concerned yips pull him from his daze, his dogs drawn to the kitchen by his anxiety and torment and very likely the scent of food hitting the floor. Will sighs, though it scarcely feels like he’s breathing at all, and turns to corral the dogs outside until he can get the floor cleaned up.

He starts with the larger shards, picking them up gingerly and dropping them into the waste bin. Next he plucks up the fingerling potatoes that have scattered across the floor; one has even ended up under his oven, requiring a broom handle to knock it out. He sighs again when the bulk of mess that remains is the chunks of pan-seared kidney, the decadent sauce they had been slathered in spattered across the floor looking far too much like blood. He feels numb as he picks up the pieces of meat and holds them in his cupped hand, and when he sends the evidence down the garbage disposal it feels like his heart might be breaking.  
  


\---

The evening begins as predictably as any other. Hannibal enjoys an early dinner at home (loin of accountant in a pleasantly tart Lingonberry sauce--Hannibal really must remember to add that particular sauce recipe into his rotation) and then he heads off to the opera house, where he enjoys a remarkable rendition of _La Commedia._ He _does_ so adore Dante, and witnessing the retelling of the Divine Comedy by a proficient cast and skillful orchestra is truly a delight.

The night can only end as all others of ilk have before it: Hannibal returns home, enjoys a brandy or, possibly, a nice stiff scotch (there is still a particularly tempting bottle of Macallan 25 Year single malt scotch that he has been saving for some time, after all), methodically strips from his tuxedo (hanging each piece up with care, despite the fact that it will all go to the cleaners regardless) and then retires for the evening. If he is feeling particularly restless, he may settle in with some of the light reading he keeps on his bedside nightstand (Machiavelli and Dante himself among the selections).

This night does not end like all the others.

Hannibal barely has both feet over the threshold before he realizes that someone is in his home. One more cautious step in has him identifying the intruder, though he likely could have guessed at who his visitor was regardless. A tilt of his head and one deep breath through his nose catches the trail of abrasive aftershave and scotch and he follows it without reservation like so many breadcrumbs.

Will has opted to wait in the dark; Hannibal can’t help the small smirk at the man’s dramatics. The flip of a light switch reveals that Will has also opted out of sitting in a chair like a civilized person. He is found sitting on the floor between the island and the fridge, leaning sluggishly against the cupboards behind him. A bottle of scotch-- _Hannibal’s_ bottle, to be precise--sits on the floor to his side. Will had procured a coffee mug, of all things, and is currently gazing into the depths of the amber liquid within it. He must know that Hannibal is there--his eyes are blinking blearily against the sudden light--but he seems to hesitate in acknowledging his presence.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal tries, gazing down at the younger man. He watches as lean shoulders raise and sag in a sigh before his head tilts up in greeting.

“Hi, Dr. Lecter,” his voice is thick with alcohol and emotion. Rough. He’d obviously made a dent in the bottle next to him but is not yet to the point of slurring his words. “Helped myself,” he mutters, raising his mug slightly. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Hannibal refrains from informing Will that the bottle he has cracked into costs more than one of the profiler’s paychecks. He wagers it is enough that he had at least deigned to find a glass instead of resorting to pulling directly from the bottle. Instead, he tugs his lips into a gracious smile. “Not at all. May I join you?”

Will pats the floor next to him. Hannibal, silently lamenting the fate of his tuxedo, folds himself down gracefully and settles next to Will. “What’s wrong, Will?” The younger man is silent for a moment before offering his mug over to Hannibal, who accepts it and takes a sip, savoring the sharp, smoky burn that he had been so intent on saving for a special occasion. Well. Will Graham is as good as any company with which to share it. Better, in fact, even if he’s in less than bright spirits.

“I broke your dish,” Will mumbles. Hannibal is certain the destruction of crockery is not the reason Will Graham has drunkenly broken into his home. Before he can even think to prod further, Will continues.

“Were you ever gonna tell me?” Will rests his head back against the cabinets, eyes closed and brows furrowed; he looks as though he may be fighting back tears. “For all the bullshit you spout about us being friends, about not bein’ alone in the dark...you didn’t think I deserved to know?” he rolls his head to meet Hannibal’s gaze. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, a clear sign that he had in fact been crying at some point this evening. Despite the glaze from the alcohol coursing through him, his stare is hard, accusatory and searching.

_He knows._

Hannibal contemplates shattering the mug in his grasp and drawing a jagged ceramic piece across Will’s throat. He considers the distance to the knife block versus Will’s level intoxication and potential reaction times. He’s still deliberating the pros and cons of a quick take down to throttle Will right there on the kitchen floor when the object of his musings is shifting, turning, clambering into his lap.

Hannibal doesn’t allow himself to think about how very solid Will feels straddling his hips, nor does he allow himself to give into the temptation of wrapping his arms around the trembling man on top of him, though he does set the mug down on the ground next to him to free up his hands. He simply pulls his gaze up to meet stormy blue eyes and pretends that he doesn’t shatter just a little bit when he sees them shimmering with fresh tears. He watches stoically as Will raises a hand to slide along Hannibal’s jaw, maintains a steady heart rate as Will leans forward to close the distance between them.

When he rests their foreheads together and closes his eyes, Hannibal allows his own to close as well. He can smell the scotch on the empath’s breath, the salt of the tears that sting his eyes, he even fancies he can smell the heartache and grief that wracks the younger man’s core. Not fear though. Not disgust. Just a morose sense of betrayal.

“Will you kill me?” he whispers; his breath is warm against Hannibal’s face, makes him want to do something foolish like close the distance between their lips.

It takes a moment for Hannibal to comprehend that the question was not in _concern_ for his life, but a _request_ ; and though just moments before he was toying with the very same idea, Will giving voice to it makes Hannibal realize how wholly unacceptable it is. The killer does then finally relent to the aching need to touch and brings a hand up to stroke soothingly through chocolate curls. “No, Will,” he answers softly.

Will’s body jerks with a silent sob as the tears finally spill forth. “Please,” he whimpers. “I can’t...I can’t live like this.”

“You must.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as grave as it sounds, but facts are facts and the fact of the matter is that Hannibal outright refuses a world that does not have Will Graham in it. His left hand continues the gentle pattern of carding through impossibly soft hair, his right reaches up to sweep a thumb along Will’s cheekbone to brush away the wetness there. Without thinking, he brings the digit to his mouth to taste Will’s exquisite sorrow and the profiler shudders above him with another broken gasp. 

Will’s head drops down and he buries his face into the crook of Hannibal’s neck. The fingers wrapped around his hips give a desperate, entreating squeeze. “Please,” Will breathes into his skin, the sensation of soft lips brushing against his pulse point sending a very inconvenient and inappropriately timed jolt of desire shocking through to Hannibal’s core. “Just let me be blind again.”

He’s not entirely sure if the plea is directed at Hannibal, himself or whatever cosmic being that may be listening and care enough to make it happen. All the same, Hannibal considers the request. The man is quite inebriated; perhaps slipping him some Rohypnol would encourage a blackout. It’s effectiveness would depend entirely on how long ago Will worked everything out and how soon after he began imbibing. Certainly having him blind would be better than not having him at all. And, in the state Will is in, Hannibal wonders if his refusal to take the man’s life would be enough to quell the desire or if he might take matters into his own hands.

But Hannibal doesn’t want him blind. He never did. He only wanted him ready. He may not be taking it well, but he will get over it, in time. Learn to accept Hannibal and, eventually, himself.

It’s not until the flood of Will’s whispered pleading subsides that Hannibal realizes he is shushing him gently, nuzzling soft, soothing kisses into the curls of the head tucked beneath his own. He pulls back, slides both hands up to cradle Will’s scruff-covered jaw tenderly, and tips the man’s face up, encouraging him to meet Hannibal’s gaze. He doesn’t quite look drunk, just weary. Perhaps his constitution for alcohol is greater than Hannibal believed. 

“It’s time to face it, Will,” he informs the empath, his tone gentle yet firm. Will’s lips, pushed into a slight pout from his frown, quiver at the statement and Hannibal longs to lean forward and press his own against them until they smooth out, yield to him. 

“I’m not ready,” he responds meekly on a breath between them.

“You will be,” Hannibal begins, his grasp tightening just so to convey his insistence when Will makes a doubtful sound. “You will be,” he tells him again. “I’ll help you.” Will sags more fully against him then, the air shifting around them with the new presence of the scent of defeat. He thinks he may detect just a little bit of hope there, as well. “Have you eaten today, darling boy?”

Will tips his head down once more to rest upon Hannibal’s shoulder and Hannibal allows it, moving his hands from Will’s face to encircle him; one rests protectively across the nape of his neck, the other strokes soothingly between the sharp curves of his shoulder blades. Will gives his head a short shake. “I just wanna sleep.”

He considers this for a moment, basking in the warmth and surrender radiating from the reluctant man in his arms. He turns his head so that his lips brush across the shell of Will’s ear, fights the pleased smirk that threatens to twist his lips when the responsive form atop him allows a shiver to slip through him and, so slightly anyone but Hannibal would miss it, presses closer.

“May I hold you?” he asks, somewhat awed to realize that despite the obvious tactical advantage of cementing a bond with Will in this delicate moment, Hannibal truly wants to. He enjoys feeling his Will pliant against him, would relish the opportunity of drifting to sleep surrounded by the scent of the man--even if a large part of that scent is currently founded in misery and terrible cologne.

Warm breath puffs against the skin of his throat in a sigh and then Will’s head is moving again, nodding wearily. Hannibal does not pause to examine the oddity of his chest seemingly expanding ten-fold at the permission, but simply tightens his hold around the younger man in his arms and uses the strength in his core and legs to push them to standing unaided. Will wraps himself more firmly around his body in the new position, legs and arms locking around torso and neck, face burrowing into his shoulder, and Hannibal soars, his blood singing endless benedictions to the perfection of the specimen that is Will Graham.

He is curious as to how Will managed to work it out, eager to see what Will saw, see how his marvelous brain finally twisted the pieces into just the right position so that they could lock together and reveal the picture. It’s an inquiry for another time. Perhaps one that will incite Will to express his sense of betrayal in an altogether more explosive way. As confrontations go, finding the man drunk on his kitchen floor was about the furthest possibility from Hannibal’s mind.

He ferries Will to his bedroom, pleased when, after he is settled on the bed, the empath remains receptive and allows Hannibal to remove his shoes and jeans. He strips out of his own layers, perhaps taking a bit less care than he normally would with the pieces of his tuxedo--that’s what dry cleaning is for, after all. Typically--or, at least, when sleeping alone--Hannibal dons a matching set of light but cozy pajamas. This particular evening, he chooses to retire in naught but his boxer briefs, greedy for any amount of skin on skin he can achieve with Will.

When he turns back to the bed he can see that Will has decided to ditch his own shirt as well; his hair is mussed (more than its usual untidiness) from its removal and the offending article has been tossed haphazardly on the floor next to his side of the bed. Will has managed to slither under the duvet and flat sheet. Hannibal moves to his own side, sliding into a position much closer to the center of the bed than he usually occupies.

Despite himself, his breath catches when Will shifts and turns into him, slipping his limbs forward to entwine with Hannibal’s and nuzzling his cheek and nose into the thatch of silver hair on Hannibal’s chest. Will sighs and melts against him as though this is routine, as though they have done it a hundred times before now. Hannibal returns one hand to sliding through Will’s tangled locks, entirely addicted to the feel of them, to the way the younger man’s breathing seems to speed up and slow down all at once with the action. His other arm snakes around the soft, warm flesh of Will’s waist, not holding him in place per se, but implying greatly that he desires nothing about this position to change.

“‘S’not right,” Will mumbles into his chest. When Hannibal responds with an inquisitive sound, Will twists his head to speak more clearly. “It’s not right, what you did. It’s not fair to make me...make me _feel_ before--” he breaks off with a huff; when he speaks again his voice has lost its scolding tone, has returned to something meek and resigned. “What choice do I possibly have now?”

They are both aware, he knows, of just how many choices Will still has. Of them all, he chose the path that led to Hannibal’s arms. Hannibal has every confidence that he will continue to do so.

He doesn’t get the chance to voice an appropriate response to that. Will, as he is wont to do (and, Hannibal hopes, will continue to do until the end of his days) subverts every one of Hannibal’s expectations and tilts his head up to brush a chaste kiss against his lips. 

“Don’t leave, tonight,” he implores. Perhaps he expects that Hannibal will use this opportunity of a bedmate as an alibi, though the only person that would think to check it would already be privy to the truth and corroborate it regardless.

“My darling boy,” Hannibal breathes against his plush lips, presses forward to steal another soft kiss. “Where else would I go?”

A low hum buzzes from Will’s throat, a sound that seems both pleased with Hannibal’s response and dubious as to the genuineness of it. He doesn’t argue further, doesn’t say anything else, actually; only dips his head to nuzzle into Hannibal’s chest once more. Soon enough his breathing deepens, evens out, and Hannibal can tell that the boy is truly asleep.

That night, Hannibal does not sleep. He merely lays in bed committing to memory every sensation of surrounding a sleeping Will Graham. He imagines laying like this as lovers, sweaty and sated in each other’s arms. Perhaps with a Will that smells only of himself, his abhorrent aftershave washed away in the bath they might take together before bed. He imagines a sleep-tousled Will waking warm and pliant in his arms not with resentment but adoration in his cerulean eyes.

When sunlight begins to slide into the room through the small gap in the eastern window curtains, Hannibal considers rising. Will will be hungry, likely having consumed nothing the previous day that wasn’t coffee or whiskey. He’ll require water, some aspirin--

The younger man shifts in his arms, limbs stretching out to unfurl his body from the way he’s stilled curled against Hannibal’s, lengthening his body briefly before returning to his previous position. His chest swells, shoulders rise with the great inhale of yawn, released on a sigh and a soft hum.

Hannibal gazes down at him, certain that he will be disappointed every day for the rest of his life if they do not begin like this.

Finally, Will tips his head up and gazes up at him blearily through sleep-hazed eyes.

He realizes then that in all his hours of holding and contemplating Will Graham, Hannibal gave little thought to how this morning might play out. Will resignation and betrayal flood into those soft eyes when the morning haze dispels and he remembers? Or will he remember at all? He did not appear to have grossly over-imbibed the night before, but altered or forgotten memories are still a possibility. Perhaps, in the sober light of day, cutting Hannibal from his life will no longer seem like such an impossibility.

“We need to establish some ground rules,” his voice is rough with sleep but stoic, his desire to get to the heart of the matter somehow surprising Hannibal, though knowing Will it should have been at least considered, if not outright expected.

Instinct is to bristle at the gall of the statement. Hannibal indulges him. “How so?”

Will gives another stretch against him and then drags a hand up to stroke idly through the hair upon Hannibal’s chest. “For starters, if you’re going to insist on continuing to feed people to the FBI you’re at _least_ going to have to make an effort not to make cannibal jokes right to their faces.”

He can’t help the wry smile that twists his lips. Of all the rules for Will to impose he did not consider that banning cannibalism puns would be anywhere near the top of the list. This gives Hannibal hope that this may be a very short list indeed. “Out of the question.”

Will gives him a playful scowl. “No one even knows you’re being funny, you realize. And if they do catch on to the joke the end result is going to be less charmed laughter and more abject horror.”

Hannibal slips a hand into Will’s sleep-mussed curls, uses the leverage to tilt the profiler’s head up even more. “Very well, you strict boy. Should I feel the impulse rising I shall make certain I only subject you to them.”

“No more trying to manipulate me into killing someone.” Hannibal opens his mouth to refute the (very accurate) claim, but Will presses on. This is not the inebriated lachrymose man from the previous evening; Hannibal is over the moon. “I know that’s what you were trying to pull with Budge. Just...don’t.”

He nods, tilts his head down to press a soft kiss to Will’s dry lips. He’s overjoyed that he feels like he can, that Will lets him. “I will agree to that on the condition that when the time comes that you don’t wish to quell the desire, you will come to me.”

Will actually _snorts_ at that, and the rest of Hannibal’s reservations dissolve. “Where else would I go, you idiot?” he pushes playfully against Hannibal’s chest and then rolls away to lay on his back, stretching his limbs out once more, this time like a starfish. “I’m starving. Is there bacon?”

And just like that, Hannibal is in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://raiast.tumblr.com/). You know, if you want.


End file.
